When the countdown timer ran to zero, the chatroom window closed automatically and a shredder program ran to erase all evidence of the interaction. Rafiq sat back in his chair, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. Hashem had missed the third and final communications window, which meant his brother was either dead or captured.
The clock on the mantelpiece sounded like a jackhammer in the stillness of the room as Rafiq’s mind processed what that meant.
I’ve been activated.
Eight years he’d waited for this moment. Seven years cut off from his home and his people, and now it was here: the day he’d hoped would never come.
It’s all up to me now.
His gaze fell on the picture of Nadine and the children that graced the corner of Javier’s desk—his desk. His beautiful wife had the children on her lap. Javi was almost four now, a spitting image of his mother. Consie looked older than her precocious three years, and took after her father with his blue eyes and fair skin. She gave a thin knowing smile to the camera, as if she knew what Rafiq might be thinking when he looked at his daughter’s image.
Rafiq tore his eyes away from the photo. While he’d waited for this day to come, he’d made a new home, a new family, created a world where people depended on him. And he’d made a promise to Don Javier on his deathbed.
The house creaked as if to remind him of his new responsibilities.
Rafiq stood abruptly and exited the room through the French doors. It was a warm autumn night, and he broke into a light sweat as he walked to the wine cellar. He should probably wake Jamil. He was his partner in this holy mission, whatever it was. No, he decided, he would do this alone. The mysterious cargo was his responsibility now.
He paused to unlock the main entrance of the wine cellar. As he stepped through the door, the smell of crushed grapes was overpowering. It had been the best harvest in decades and had taken them weeks to get the grapes in and processed. Rafiq walked quickly past the stainless steel vats deeper into the cellar, through the rows of barrels and racks of bottles to the very back of the cave. Here, only a single bulb burned in front of a gated alcove set behind a wire cage. Javier’s private storage area.
The gate opened easily on greased hinges. Rafiq pushed the catch to let the last row of bottles swing forward, uncovering a steel door. He pulled the key from around his neck, unlocking the door. The wooden crate occupied the center of the room. He snatched the prybar from its hook on the wall, where they had left it so many years ago in preparation for this day.
The dry wood of the crate cracked when he pushed the flat end of the crowbar under one corner of the lid. He levered it up and a shower of splinters burst into the air. Sweat popped out on his brow, and his breath came sharp and fast as Rafiq worked the edge of the lid, frantic now to see what was inside the mystery box. The lid fell to the floor with a hollow thud.
A black plastic packing case filled the interior of the wooden box. Rafiq smashed the crowbar against the corners of the crate until the sides fell away, revealing the whole case. A clear plastic folder, affixed to the top of the case, held a single sheet of folded paper. Rafiq slid it out and opened it.
Brother—
If you are reading this, you have been called to action. I have failed and everything we believe in now rests on you. If I cannot give you specific direction, I trust you will use this power to strike against the enemies of our cause.
May Allah guide you—
Hashem
Rafiq’s hands shook as he pulled at the clamps that held the lid of the case shut. They snapped like rifle shots in the enclosed space. The lid made a little sigh when he lifted it up, as if he were opening a tomb.
He stared down at the contents of the case through a swirl of emotions. Nadine’s face, the voice of his mother calling him for dinner in Lebanon, Hashem’s lean smile, the laughter of his children. The babble of images and sounds rose up in his consciousness until he slammed the lid back down and one image remained.
A lone email with the words: STOP TEL AVIV.
CHAPTER 46
Reza bought an International Herald Tribune from a vendor at the Beirut — Rafic Hariri Airport. The headline above the fold was still all about the Iranian nuclear accord. He slapped the newspaper closed.
He could smell the sea through the open window of the cab, and he dragged in a deep breath. The smell of the ocean was the smell of better days for Reza, reminding him of family trips when he was a boy. Family trips before the Shah fell and the hard-liners took over. Family trips before Israel had invaded Lebanon in ’82. Beirut had never really recovered from the shock of the invasion and the subsequent acts of violence that seemed to convulse the nation every few years. The rise of Hezbollah, literally the Party of God, funded by his own Iran, and now the Islamic State… when did it ever end?
They passed a bombed-out building that stood like a silent reminder.
Rouhani could make a difference; Reza believed that. He’d believed it strongly enough to steer his career in the intelligence community toward working for Rouhani. It had taken some time for the great man to trust him, to make sure he wasn’t another undercover agent from the hard-liners trying to worm his way into Rouhani’s inner circle. It had taken time, but it had been worth it. Hassan Rouhani would bring his country back into the world order, make their mighty Persian heritage mean something again, and Reza would be by his side.
Over the years, they’d developed a shorthand in their conversation. From a political perspective, there were things that his boss should never have knowledge of but needed to be taken care of all the same. Rouhani hadn’t batted an eye when Reza told him he’d be gone for a few days, maybe a week. The great man smiled and nodded, and didn’t ask a single question.
He didn’t need to. They had trust.
His eyes fell on the newspaper again. Aban had been sketchy on details, but he’d claimed there was at least one more nuclear warhead from the Iraqi cache. Hashem, Aban claimed, had been the mastermind behind the effort to place the Iraqi Air Force in “safekeeping” with Iran in 1991, so it made sense he would run the same play again when Saddam was under pressure from the Coalition forces in 2003. Except this time, Hashem had done it secretly.
For all his talking, Aban had given him only one solid lead: Rafiq Roshed, a name and nothing more.
Thanks to Hashem’s oversight, the MISIRI files on Rafiq were almost nonexistent, hence his visit to Beirut.
The cab stopped in the tourist area, and Reza paid off the driver. He strolled along the boulevard, admiring the famous Rouche Sea Rock in the blue Mediterranean Sea and checking his tail to ensure he wasn’t being followed. After forty minutes, he sent a text and walked briskly toward the Mövenpick Hotel and Resort. He made his way toward the coffee shop and selected a table in the corner, ordering an espresso. He left the newspaper open on the small wrought iron table.
A man wandered into the coffee shop and took a table an arm’s length away from Reza. His eyes lighted on the newspaper.
“Strange times we live in, don’t you think?” Reza asked him.
The man took a moment to meet his eyes. “But stranger times are likely ahead of us.”
“Salaam,” Reza said. “Will you join me?”
Bilal Hamieh lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Reza. With his graying beard, unkempt hair, and sagging man-tits, he looked like a cab driver, but Reza had read his dossier. Now forty-five years old, he’d started as a street fighter in the campaigns against the Israeli occupation of his country when he was no more than a boy and had risen through the ranks with each successive campaign. Today, he ran the intelligence apparatus for Hezbollah. Not especially political, Hamieh was reputed to be the most powerful — and the most secretive — man in the Party of God. Reza regarded the sharp eyes that stared back at him from across the table. If anyone could help him, it was Hamieh.